


Auld Lang Syne

by lamardeuse



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-26
Updated: 2010-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray takes a long time to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bluebrocade and DS Sekritsanta on Livejournal.

"Hey! Move your ass or I'll move it for ya!"

Ray closes his eyes and bangs his head against the backrest of the Goat repeatedly. "Take it easy, Joey."

His partner flings an arm out the window at the guy in the double-parked Hummer. "Take it easy, nothin'! This guy's a menace to society."

The guy, who Ray can see from here is sweating copiously in his business suit, looks like he's about to have a coronary. "I'm sorry," he says earnestly, "I'm waiting for a friend. He should be out any - "

The light, mercifully, turns green right then. Ray guns the engine, slamming Joey, still cursing, back into his seat. "Rich assholes," he mutters, "think they own the fuckin' world."

"You tell 'em, Joey," Ray sighs. "You tell 'em."

    
    
    
 

In the eight years since Ray said goodbye to Fraser at the Norman Wells airport, he has been through nine partners. Joey Tomcik, the latest one, also happens to be the longest running at just over two years. Joey is twenty pounds overweight, a smoker, and not far from retirement. He's basically a loud-mouthed, foul-mouthed schnook, but he's not on the take, and for all his faults he's pretty good backup. Not great, but pretty good. If Ray got into an impossible situation like he used to do with Fraser, they'd both be dead, but then Ray hasn't gotten into any impossible situations in a hell of a long time.

Joey was married for a while back in the Stone Age, but now he lives alone and likes it. He dates women, occasionally fucks them if he's lucky, and that's about as involved as he gets.

"Screw emotional commitment, that's for chicks. Anyway, that's what partners are for, to put up with your shit no matter what and listen to you bitch about life. Why do I gotta have somebody at home for that?"

It's okay, Ray keeps telling himself. He'll put up with Joey until he retires, and then he'll take on some fresh-faced rookie or while away his remaining years behind a desk, maybe. It'll all be fine in the end.

Problem is, he's got no idea what the hell he's going to do when he gets to the end. But then, he doesn't know what he's doing here in the middle, either. And unlike Joey, when he comes home and there's nobody there but the turtle he feels some small and indefinable piece of him shrivel up and fall away.

    
    
    
 

In other parts of the world, life goes on. Vecchio remains devoted to Stella, and she's devoted to him, though she gets bored with the bowling alley business after a couple of years and opens a law practice in the back. To Ray, somebody having a law office in a bowling alley sounds like the plot of some quirky prime time comedy-drama, but he doesn't tell her that.

At the age of forty-one Stella has her first child, a tiny, perfect girl who Ray can tell is going to be as beautiful as her mom.

He never asks her what made her change her mind about having a kid. Besides, he thinks he already knows the answer.

    
    
    
 

The Duck brothers actually make money with their comedy club, but only because they sell their property to a condo developer for three times what they paid for it. Even though they argue and bitch at one another more than Statler and Waldorf, they stay in business together. Their next venture is a West Indian-Irish fusion restaurant on the North Shore that against all odds ends up becoming the next big thing when Cameron Diaz eats there and proceeds to rave to her friends about it. Pretty soon they're rubbing noses with the rich, pretty and botoxed, and bitching at one another in the kitchen because it's become part of the show.

Everyone at the two-seven figures they're a couple, but Ray's not so sure. After all, when he got back from the Northwest Areas, everybody tried to hide it, but he could tell they were surprised he was back. They figured he and Fraser had been doing the horizontal mambo for months, and the search for the hand was like a honeymoon.

Sometimes, when Ray's drunk enough, he still finds that really fucking funny.

    
    
    
 

Frannie has so many kids that Ray eventually can't remember which one is which. He's just about willing to believe they are immaculately conceived, because with each successive child she gets more and more of this untouchable glow about her. It's a little weird, but she's happy about it, so who is he to judge?

The day Welsh retires from the force, he marches over to Frannie's house and proposes. Ray doesn't know all of the details, but he's sure the rumors that flood the two-seven after that are bullshit. At the wedding, which at two hundred guests is small for an Italian shindig, Frannie's kids - those who can walk - flank her as she glides up the aisle. Welsh is holding the second youngest (Mike? Louie?) and Frannie the youngest (Louie? Mike?), and they're both grinning as the kids move to surround them both, insulation against loneliness and an uncertain future.

Ray drinks too much at the wedding, but luckily not so much that he gropes a bridesmaid or otherwise makes an asshole of himself. When Welsh is walking him out to pour him into a cab, he asks bluntly, "When was the last time you talked to Fraser?"

Ray weaves a little at that, and Welsh's big bear paw grabs his arm, steadying him. "About a year, I think." He frowns; it's almost Thanksgiving, and Fraser usually calls sometime around Christmas, like clockwork. "Yeah. 'Bout that."

"You should call him. Tonight."

Ray tries to jerk away, but Welsh's grip is too strong. "Too drunk," he mutters.

Welsh's hand is gentle on his head as he helps him into the car. "That might be the best time," he murmurs.

    
    
    
 

Ray doesn't call, but he thinks about it more, and that's not a good way to be. He's tried not to spend a lot of time replaying his history with Fraser in his head, but sometimes it starts reeling before his eyes like an old movie that's been faded and spliced together, the sound too loud and cutting out in spots. The third time he wakes up in a cold sweat, he knows he's screwed.

Waiting for Fraser to call just makes it worse, so one Friday night in early December after a particularly shitty week he picks up the phone and dials, and the next thing he knows, he hears Fraser's scratchy 'hello' on the other end of the line.

He glances at his watch. Shit, it's three-thirty in the morning, and it's only another hour earlier there.

"Hey, Fraser," he says casually. "Sorry, I, uh, didn't realize it was so late."

"Ray?" Fraser's voice is small, confused. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

A pause. "You never call me."

Ray blinked. Well, yeah, that was true; it was always Fraser who called him, never the other way around. "Thought I'd save you the nickel this time."

"Oh." Another pause. "That's very kind of you, Ray."

Ray clears his throat. "Uh, merry early Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Ray," Fraser says, and Ray's not imagining it, there's that old warmth in Fraser's voice, and it washes over him like a warm wave. "Have you been well?"

"Oh, sure, peachy," Ray says, trying to leach as much of the irony out of his voice as possible. "How 'bout you?"

As Fraser launches into his recap of the previous year's events in and around the thriving metropolis of Fort Good Hope, population five hundred and forty-nine, Ray lies back in his bed and closes his eyes. It's the middle of the night and he's so fucking lonely. He's afraid he's going to be this way until he dies, with nobody but the turtle to come home to, and he feels like he's been sleepwalking for eight goddamned years and is just now waking up. He wants to tell Fraser all of this but he doesn't want this to be about that. He wants to tell Fraser he's sorry he didn't tell him what he meant to him, didn't tell him he wanted to stay close, to stay with him no matter what people would say. There was a moment there, their last night together, when he could tell they were both thinking about it, but Fraser was waiting for him, and if he'd taken so much as one step forward they would've been kissing and naked in minutes. But fear had gripped him at the last moment, revealing a yellow streak a mile wide, and he'd stepped back instead of forward, and the moment had been lost.

Ray suddenly wants to step forward, and he doesn't care any more if it's a step off a cliff. But he can't do it here, now, with Fraser so far away. He's got to try, though, because he can't keep going much longer like this. He can't get back the years he's wasted, but he can grow some balls and face this like a man, without pissing in his pants this time. He doesn't want to wake up one of these mornings and see Joey's reflection looking back at him in the bathroom mirror. Hell, he's not too crazy about his own face these days.

"So, still no Mrs. Fraser?" Ray asks abruptly, when Fraser pauses for air.

There are a couple of heavy, measured seconds of silence. "No," Fraser answers, not quite a question, but the 'o' carries a faint note of speculation. "Are you trying to tell me there's a - " he stumbles a little over the words " - a Mrs. Kowalski?"

This is such an unintentionally ridiculous question that Ray actually giggles. He knows he sounds like a hysterical freak, but he can't help himself. "Uh, no, Frase, no missus for me. Frannie got hitched, though. To Welsh."

"Yes, I'd heard. I wanted to come to the wedding, but I couldn't find a replacement. Vacation time is rather difficult to - "

"Yeah, you said before." They've been over this ground, and Ray knows it's bullshit; it can't be that hard to get a replacement, especially with the - what? - over two months' notice he must have had for Frannie and Welsh's wedding. Fraser's always used that as an excuse on the rare occasions Ray suggested Fraser come back to Chicago for a visit.

Sudden fear and doubt floods him; what if Fraser doesn't want to see him? What if he laughs in his face? No, Fraser wouldn't laugh, he'd be all earnest and sincere and probably draw him a fucking flow chart on why a relationship between them would never work. Given the choice, Ray thinks he'd vote for the laughter.

"Well." Fraser clears his throat again. "You still haven't told me about you."

Ray stares up at the ceiling and starts thinking about what to pack. The last time he was up there, it was early spring; he's going to have to start watching the Weather Channel to find out what the temperatures are like up there right now. Would it be warmer or colder? "Not much to tell," he says. "Same old grind."

"You sound tired," Fraser murmurs, and his voice curls out of the phone and wraps around Ray like a cat. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

Ray chuckles. "I guess I'd better, ain't nobody else gonna do it for me."

"Ray - "

No; Ray can't do it like this, over the phone. Pretty soon Fraser's soft woolen late-night voice will draw confessions out of him that he doesn't want to make yet. He's got to plan his strategy, make this good. The rest of his life depends on it.

"Look, I've kept you up long enough. I gotta go. Sorry I bothered you."

Ray can hear Fraser's disappointment when Fraser murmurs, "It was no bother, Ray. It's never a bother to hear from you."

Ray grins, a small spark of hope igniting at the words. "See you around, huh?"

"Yes. See you around." Wistful this time, like he thinks it's a nice dream that's never going to happen.

Ray hangs up the phone first, still grinning. "Buddy, you got no idea."

    
    
    
 

It takes six days for Ray to get his vacation leave (the new lieu is not pleased with such a last-minute request around the holidays, but Ray doesn't really give a flying fuck), and that is five and a half days too long. He has now had way too much time to argue with himself, to tell himself that he has gone batshit insane and is no longer operating in the same time zone as reality.

At a certain point, though, right around the time he finds somebody who promises to give the turtle a good home, the momentum he's built up starts to carry him forward. He's booked the flight, so he has to do it; he's pissed off his new boss, so he has to do it; he's given away his last friend in the world, so he has to do it.

When he keeps repeating it like that, it helps. But the voice still tells him he needs therapy.

The airports are crowded to the rafters, but as he travels from Chicago to Calgary to Edmonton to Yellowknife to Norman Wells, the crowd dwindles to one old couple waiting to board the plane that Ray comes in on. Before he knows what he's doing, he goes over to them and starts asking them about their trip. Even though they've never flown before, they're determined to see their kids and grandkids who've moved to Yellowknife, they tell him, and the looks of mingled terror and anticipation on their wrinkled faces makes Ray feel strangely humble.

When he finally boards the tiny plane for the short hop to Fort Good Hope, it's early morning. The sun won't be up for another few hours, the pilot tells him, but then it only makes a short appearance. Ray can't help smiling as the guy starts to explain how the axial tilt of the Earth leads to longer days in the summer and longer nights in the winter, even though his guts are getting more knotted every mile he comes closer to Fraser.

"It's okay," he says, when the guy pauses for breath, "I spent four months up here once."

"Cool," the pilot says. "You worked for the pipeline?"

Ray shakes his head and peers out the window into the darkness. "Nah. I was on my honeymoon."

    
    
    
 

When he hears the _thunk - thunk - thunk _sound getting louder as he approaches the cabin, he thinks for one crazy second it's his heart pounding in his chest. Then he realizes it's the sound of an axe hitting wood, and takes a deep, calming breath.

There's a neat trail up to the front steps, painstakingly shoveled, and another one winding around to the back where there's a small shed for the dogs. Even though the path is clear, he walks slowly, because it's just hit him that the speech he had carefully memorized on the long series of plane rides up here has flown right out of his head. He's totally clueless, without the first idea of what to say once he turns that corner.

He slows to a stop, and every doubt and fear that's been chasing him the whole way from Chicago catches up to him, smothering him. What the fuck does he think he's _doing_? He's forty-four years old, for Christ's sake, and he's about to ask a guy he hasn't seen in close to a decade if he'd like to go steady. Just because he fell in love with Fraser on that goddamned adventure and hasn't been cured yet, that doesn't mean Fraser feels the same way. He never should have come, and if he's got an ounce of sense left in him he should turn his ass around and run. Really, he's too old for this shit.

He's standing there paralyzed when he realizes the sound of the axe has stopped. By the time he registers the crunch of boots in the snow, it's too late. Fraser comes marching around the corner with an armload of wood and stops dead when he sees Ray. Ray watches, helpless, as Fraser's expression changes from surprise to disbelief to something Ray can't figure out at all. His face looks older, of course, the lines more apparent, and there's a tuft of graying hair peeking out from under his fur cap, but to Ray he's still the most beautiful sight he's ever seen, standing here in the place where he belongs.

Fraser's arms go limp and the wood tumbles to the ground, one of the logs narrowly missing his right foot. He doesn't notice, just steps over the jumbled mess without even looking at it and closes the distance between them, ripping off his gloves as he goes. When he's near enough for Ray to smell the combination of wool, sweat and wood shavings, he reaches out and lays his two palms on either side of Ray's face. His fingers are warm, hot even, or maybe Ray's skin's just been frozen all these lost years, waiting for the thaw.

"Ray?" Fraser asks. That one syllable holds about a thousand questions, and Ray knows the answer to all of them.

"Yeah," he says simply. "Yeah, Fraser."

Fraser nods like he understands, and then he leans in touches his mouth to Ray's, gently at first, increasing the pressure slowly. Ray groans and clutches at Fraser's sides, grabbing fistfuls of flannel, and he's solid and real under Ray's hands, and _Christ _he can't believe he was ever scared to let himself have this. Within seconds they're kissing almost frantically, like they're trying to cram eight years' worth of kissing into a couple of minutes.

It takes Ray a little while to realize Fraser's shaking, and when it hits him he draws back and looks at him. "What's wr - "

Fraser's shaking with silent laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners, showing the crow's feet that have gathered there. "Nothing," he murmurs, "God, Ray, for the first time in a very long time I can honestly say that nothing is wrong."

"Yeah, you and me both," Ray says raggedly.

Fraser kisses him again, slow and deep. "Come inside?" he asks, almost shyly, and Ray doesn't need to be asked twice: he grabs onto whatever he can hold and hauls Fraser with him toward the cabin door, and Fraser's laughing now, full out, joy spilling out of him as he stumbles along behind.

They strip one another quickly, hands clumsy on buttons and zippers until Fraser's lying naked on his bed, acres of pale skin flushed at nipples, groin and cheeks. He lets Ray look at him for a few seconds; Ray's not surprised there's a bit more spread there around the waist than there had been, but he is surprised that Fraser actually looks as unchanged as he does. And then he sees it: a certain weariness about the eyes, tinged with bone-deep relief and a tentative happiness that squeezes Ray's heart.

"I'm so glad you're here, Ray," Fraser says softly, raising a hand to his cheek, "so glad. I've wanted - "

"What?" Ray asks, anxious to give Fraser what he needs.

Fraser blinks. "You, Ray," he says, as if it were the only possible answer to the question.

"God, you're just so - " Ray falters, not sure if there is one word to describe Fraser. Instead, he substitutes action for worthless summaries, lips trailing a lazy, meandering path down Fraser's body like the broad band of the Mackenzie River.

His mouth is watering by the time he's halfway to Fraser's cock, and suddenly he can't do the scenic route for another second. Fraser groans when Ray wraps a hand around him and gasps when Ray licks up the underside of his cock, and when Fraser curses as Ray slides his mouth over him, Ray decides that boarding that plane at O'Hare might have been the best damned decision he's ever made.

It's been approximately forever since he gave anybody head, and he knows his technique could be better. Fraser seems to appreciate the effort, though, because soon he's moaning almost constantly, hips jerking occasionally in tiny thrusts like he's losing his grip on his control. Blindly, Ray reaches up and pinches a nipple just as he takes Fraser as deep as he can; Fraser arches, shoving his cock in as he comes, and Ray closes his eyes and grips Fraser's hips and concentrates on opening himself up for this, for Fraser, for everything.

He pulls off slowly, regretfully, to find Fraser insistently tugging him up the bed. Settling himself over top of Fraser like a blanket, he tilts his head for a kiss like he's been doing it for years. And when Fraser's strong, sure hand flings him headlong off a cliff a few minutes later, he doesn't mind the fall.

"Stay," Fraser breathes later, in the pitch darkness, like there's ever been any doubt of that.

"How long y'wan' me?" Ray mumbles, close to dropping off.

There's a soft pressure just above his temple, and Ray realizes Fraser is kissing his hair. "Forever."

Ray smiles into the pillow. "I can live with that," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> First published December 2006.


End file.
